2024 was a difficult year for me, perhaps the most difficult one yet, but it was also a year in which I truly lived through many beautiful moments and asked myself countless questions. The songs I’m about to talk about helped me get through 2024. I kept coming back to them whenever I had a specific need. In 2024, I met so many people and went through so many situations that, at the end of the line, I’m genuinely proud of all the amazing people I’ve encountered—some of whom are now my friends. I met professionals, I commented a lot (nothing new for me), but the point is that somehow, I managed to enjoy myself amidst the general chaos that was called 2024. I have the most ridiculous and hilarious stories. For instance, how we ended up hitchhiking at midnight—somewhere on the outskirts of Bucharest or near Adunații Copăceni, or something like that. All the gossip and those ‘I can’t believe this is real’ reactions we had on the terrace at Balls with overpriced food in front of us, all the random nights in Control with everything we said and did there, all the shady people I met (shady in the truest sense of the word), the concerts where I was genuinely happy to be there and experience everything to the fullest.
With that said, let’s dive into what I mostly had on repeat in my tiny in-ear headphones throughout 2024—the same ones that make old ladies on the street stare at me like I’m talking to myself.
Andra Andriucă – Ce simplu ar fi
This song always takes me into a different temporal space than the one I’m in. I teleport myself and start placing myself in all the situations where the walls of resistance I’ve built over the years have held me back. You know how awful it feels to want to say something but you can’t because you have to be that untouchable person who doesn’t seem to feel anything? Because if you show even the smallest sign of emotion, it feels like the sky will come crashing down on you, and everyone will end up using you.
Over the years, I’ve built so many walls. As I’ve grown and gone through more experiences, I’ve added another brick, cementing it even further. Every moment when I felt small, helpless, or in need of help became a brick in the Great Wall of China I’ve built around myself. Now, when someone even dares to try to climb it, I just watch, almost amused, knowing they won’t stand a chance against the other bricks, the other walls. And guess what? Behind the wall they’re climbing, there are countless more. So, good luck, sucker—you’ll never catch me “unprepared” and ready to be hurt again.
Andra’s song speaks to me exactly about this. About the idea of breaking down these walls faster and not making it so hard for people to get to know me. I’m not a puzzle or a chess game, and no one is obligated to play a level-based game just to truly know me. The waves rise from fears, just like the walls do. But how honest could we be if I had the courage to open up fully and stop expecting someone to humiliate themselves just to know me completely?
I wish I knew what it felt like to love without fear, but the fear I feel whenever I think about it isn’t just ordinary fear. In 2024, I had so many moments where I told myself, Well, you should’ve said something, and not waited so long—to show that you’re trying too, that you care, that you’re interested. I admit, at first, the idea of one day telling someone everything unsaid seemed very childish. How could I possibly burden someone so much with all the movies playing in my head, or the traumatic and happy events from my life? Over time, I’ve imagined scenarios where all I do is talk and pour out what I feel and think, but I’ve always stopped short of actually doing it.
I don’t know if it’s my mind digging deeper or the feeling that I might be hurt again that stops me. And I already know it’s going to happen—so why did I let it happen if I already predicted it? That’s just one of the thousands of scenarios I imagine while sitting in a corner, asking myself, What if?
I love the lyrics “ În loc de urmări am naște iertări” because it’s really about me. About how I should forgive myself for “letting” myself be hurt. Isn’t that the joy of this fleeting life we live? Allowing ourselves to live, to feel, to make mistakes, to speak to ourselves gently, to look at ourselves warmly, and to love one another?
It would be so simple, but why not try to make it a reality—or at least work daily to become a softer version of ourselves, one we can understand better and one that’s accessible to others?
Paul Tihan – O pană ce mângâie
This song made me stop feeling like an imposter in my own life—a guilt I’ve carried, consciously or not, for over 20 years. It brought me relief, especially later, when I had a conversation with Paul about this song. I’ve always felt somehow out of place, like I’d taken someone else’s spot or life. But the truth is, this feeling stayed hidden deep within me, in a corner of my mind, pulsing and always resurfacing, making me question whether I truly deserved this or not. I’ve often wondered if I was ever meant to be here, or if someone else was supposed to be in my place. Is this truly my spot, or was it theirs, and I simply filled it so my parents wouldn’t dwell on all the pain they’d endured? Unfortunately for me, even as a child, I was painfully aware of everything, and that meant taking on other people’s suffering as if it were my own. I blamed myself for decisions I didn’t make and carried the absurd weight of that guilt for years until I realized it wasn’t healthy. I really believe I was the kind of child and teenager who was overly understanding and conciliatory. Now, as an adult, I’m finally trying to rebel against this and stop carrying everyone else’s pain. These burdens were never mine to bear, but because I’m such an empathetic person, I took them on willingly—or sometimes without even realizing it.
About the song’s instrumental: I can’t help but mention the cello in the background. I grew up attending an arts school, where chamber music concerts were a constant presence. I’ve always loved string instruments, from the double bass to the violin and, of course, the cello. On this song, the cello feels especially poignant—it aches for me because it takes me to such a familiar place. It feels like I’m nine or ten years old again, sitting in the school concert hall, listening to older classmates perform under the guidance of a conductor. I’ve always found that kind of discipline and coordination fascinating. At that age, I somehow immersed myself in it completely.
Looking back, I realize I took on one of the greatest pains of my life—a pain and guilt that were never truly mine to carry. But I was always a compliant child. Everyone around me was sad, so I decided to carry their sadness and pain for them. I can say that I’ve held onto these wounds like burning coals all these years. This song speaks my language. It tells me that it’s not my fault, not my pain, and not my responsibility. Most importantly, it reassures me that this is my place—I didn’t take it from someone else. I didn’t replace anyone in my parents’ lives; I’m just me. The loss they experienced was theirs, not mine. This song is deeply therapeutic for me. I listen to it whenever I feel myself taking on a pain or responsibility that doesn’t belong to me. I no longer need to be the compliant child trying to make everyone else feel better. I need to feel good within myself.
This song is from 2022, but I’ve still had it on repeat in 2024. It always takes me back to an endless drive along the seaside coast in an old, rundown car on a bumpy, unpaved countryside road covered in stones and sand, surrounded by a sunflower field. It’s such a vivid image that I could actually paint it—a never-ending scene where both characters are happy. It’s an ongoing conversation filled with laughter, leading to moments of, “I can’t believe you did that! No way, I don’t believe you.”
Even though it’s probably Kadjavsi’s most well-known track, and people might be tired of hearing it, I still adore it. It always transports me to that same landscape, maybe with different characters, but the situation is always the same. And the lyrics, “So run back to your father, let him know of your power / Maybe now he’ll truly be proud of his daughter,”resonate with me perfectly because I’ve always been, and still am, a daddy’s girl.What sets this apart from another favorite Kadjavsi track, “Castillo”, is that “Same as Before” doesn’t end the way it begins. Castillo, on the other hand, loops back to where it started, and I think that’s what makes it so brilliant—it mirrors how everything begins and ends the same way if you think about it poetically. Coming back to Same as Before, it feels like a song where they just played around with the instrumental, and the result is amazing. Honestly, I haven’t found anything like what these people create in our local music scene, and I can’t even compare them to anyone here. I’ve seen them live multiple times, and they sound just as good live as they do recorded. What surprised me during their concerts, especially when they played this track, was how the audience didn’t seem to expect they’d enjoy it so much. This so-called “elevator music,” as I jokingly called it at first, ended up winning over so many people. The entire team behind this project seems to know exactly what they’re doing or it just seems, and it shows during their live performances. The song is very danceable but still leaves room for dreaming or maybe even hoping. I love how it acknowledges that we won’t ever be the same as we were before, and it does so in a playful tone, with a kind of “I don’t care what anyone thinks” attitude. It’s like saying, “We’ll keep doing what we’ve always done—the same old recipe that somehow still works.” There’s something beautiful in realizing that “you and I will never be the same again,” and it feels like one of the characters is the one steering this whole cat-and-mouse game. It’s a lovely, repetitive, complementary dynamic where the two characters keep finding themselves in the same cycle.I absolutely love the beat in this song because it keeps me engaged and never lets me get bored. The guitars in the background, which almost feel incidental, are so perfectly placed that they maintain an atmosphere that makes complete sense in my head. This song feels like a journey of indecisive wanderers, but it’s an ongoing journey—it never stops. This endless repetition makes me love it even more.
I had Same as Before on repeat in 2024. Whenever I needed a moment to catch my breath or just listen to something and enjoy myself, I knew exactly what to play. I’d close my eyes, build my little scenario in my head, and for 4 minutes and 26 seconds, I wasn’t in my tiny apartment or crammed into the subway during rush hour.
Cardinal – wait that was wrong
I played this song countless times in 2024, followed by Stem Cell Research, because I kept getting the same reaction: “Ionela, isn’t this the same song? What’s the difference between them?” I loved this question so much that I have to admit—sometimes I’d leave them both on repeat just to mess with people and see if they could figure out the differences. Spoiler: they never did. My friends are still searching for those differences, but I kept dancing to these tracks all year long, trying to shake off all the stress that piled up on those terrible days when I barely even had time to eat.
Wait That Was Wrong is a short song. In one minute and 59 seconds, I could flail my arms and legs around, taking a physical and mental break from all the chaos around me—and in my own head. Why do I like this song? Besides all the reasons I’ve already mentioned, I love the idea that no one around me gets it. Maybe I also have a small (or big) passion for math/garage rock. I can listen to riffs all day, with or without vocals or anything else, as long as they sound good. Plus, I really like the guys from Tangled Hair or Hella, and in Romania, besides Cardinal, we don’t really have anyone who sounds even remotely like those bands. Maybe it’s all in my head—I’ve been called crazy before, so who knows. This song stayed on my playlist all year because I needed that dose, that spontaneous energy boost I knew I could only find here. I’m a very picky person, so if I had this track on repeat, it means I genuinely liked it. Maybe it’s because I associated it with something I already love—this genre of music and the artists in my playlist who somehow orbit this style, even if they hate labeling themselves. It’s the kind of song that pushed me to dig deeper, to explore more, to figure out all the pedals and the random bands I’d stumble upon on Spotify and add to my playlists. 2024 was a really tough year for me, and this whole idea of “music hunting” kept me afloat, saving me from getting to know the staff at Obregia Hospital. Also, Wait That Was Wrong is my ace up my sleeve. I always play it when people seem lost and confused. I love watching their reactions as they go, “What’s with these sounds? Why does it sound like this?” And I just sit back, let them ask all their questions, and wrap it up with, “What do you mean? It sounds great.” One thing’s for sure: this song was on repeat in my 2024 playlist. Whether it was to annoy people, to dance, or just to hear something Romanian that doesn’t sound Romanian at all. Also, the lyrics feel like they came out of the head of an overthinker—not that that’s necessarily good or bad, but who knows? “It’s over now.”
This song is one I’ve listened to, more or less, with the same person in mind—but only out of self-deception, because I don’t see, believe, or at least hope I won’t find myself in that situation again. Though, as the saying goes, never say never. Krrysopher is the kind of artist I would compare internationally to Maisie Peters, Gracie Abrams, or Lizzy McAlpine. It feels like they share a similar style, except Krrysopher is local, while the others are international artists. I really enjoy artists who draw inspiration from or sound like some of my favorite ones. Krrysopher feels like a “we have a Maisie Peters at home” situation, but I don’t mean that in a negative way. The line that mentions the title of Lord Huron’s “The Night We Met” made me hit replay on this song multiple times. My favorite lyric is: “just lock the door before you leave,” maybe because the person I associate this song with never actually closed that door—they left it slightly open, just in case they might ever need it to be open again. It’s the kind of song I almost don’t want to admit I associate with someone who still might be a “maybe” or not. It’s sad and wrong to live in the past, which is why I try to move on—if I haven’t already. But have I moved on if I’m still associating random songs with them? Another annoying thing is when you end up sharing your music with someone. It took me so long not to think, “Oh, this is what X listens to,” and instead just enjoy the song for what it is. Homesick tells a story so similar to what I’ve lived and felt, which might be why I’ve had it on repeat since discovering Krrysopher. Maybe it’s also on repeat because it reminds me of a beautiful time—or just a time where I was the only one putting in effort while the other person didn’t. Who knows what would have happened if I hadn’t done so? I find it fascinating how we all seem to go through similar situations yet choose to share and express them in such different, original ways. But the emphasis is different. What I find most interesting and beautiful about music is that a song can mean one thing to you and something entirely different to me. I admire Krrysopher’s courage—the courage to sing in both English and Romanian—and it seems like she enjoys experimenting, though I’d love to see her push those boundaries even further. For me, this song is tied to the word saudade, which is the most beautiful word I know. Saudade is a Portuguese word with profound meaning and one that’s hard to translate into other languages. It’s a feeling of intense longing, melancholy, and nostalgia for something or someone dear, which might be lost, distant, or inaccessible. It’s more than just missing someone—it’s much deeper and can carry either positive or negative connotations. It can mean whatever you want it to mean. This song hit certain buttons and opened some drawers I thought were long closed. It’s strange and beautiful how music can say, “Oh, you thought you closed those drawers? Well, let’s see how they open—or how the locks break.” Even though it was released in 2023, in 2024, I’ve had it on repeat. Krrysopher’s Homesick opens drawers full of nostalgia—it’s clear some time has passed, and it doesn’t hurt as much anymore. And as the song concludes, “Just lock the door before you leave.”
Dimitri’s Bats – Love Runs Out
This song gives me hope, but it also makes me realize again and again how much effort it takes to have and maintain a healthy relationship with someone. Something that isn’t told to you upfront, that this relationship requires work, and I don’t think we’re taught this from a young age. I don’t think I realized, for a long time, that every relationship, whether it’s friendship or something deeper, actually involves work. A daily effort to understand what’s going on with you, with the person beside you, and how you can maintain or, if you still feel the same, whether it’s worth fighting for or not. I want to teach you my ways and I want to get to know you, but that means you need to let me do that, that you want me to do it. To discover things, even the scariest things about you or the most embarrassing ones. For me, this song means acceptance and learning. Accepting that I can, or you can, be so vulnerable that you let me, or I let you, understand me. To understand why I react the way I do, why I say what I say, and why my moods change so quickly. Love Runs Out is my favorite song by Dimitri’s Bats, released in 2023, and I’ve had it on repeat ever since. Yes, I like it more than Heavy, shocking, right? It seems like the kind of song that makes you think, but those thoughts are about, “Let’s get to work,” or “Stop, pause, it’s okay what you’ve done so far, it’s over.” It’s also about evolution and how each person grows differently. Do we grow together or separately? Does it get to know us in the process, or do we leave each other to figure it out on our own, and at the end, try to recognize each other, or do we give up from the start? I listened to it in 2024 during both sad and happy moments, whether I wanted time for contemplation or just wanted someone to remind me how much work it takes to maintain something like this, and whether it’s worth it or not. Still, I always concluded with, “How could it not be worth it? I’ve truly met someone!” But from Andra Andriucă’s description of the song, you might realize that I also have a huge problem with letting myself be discovered, with my guard down. There are two songs that somehow could follow one another. The instrumental in Love Runs Out is exactly what it needs to be. I didn’t think it could be any more than it is because it’s already so packed with lyrics that make you think or back you into a corner. Plus, I love it live when Radu picks up his guitar, and everyone’s like, “OMG, he’s playing Heavy,” while I’m more like, “Haha, it’s Love Runs Out.” For me, it’s a song about work, but also beautiful work that leaves you with things learned and accumulated. I could contemplate this song all day. Just like I do in the subway, having it on repeat, watching random people, wondering what their story is and what they’ve learned from this kind of relationship. It’s a fascinating hidden story. Or at concerts and festivals when I’m alone and don’t feel like talking to anyone, I sit in a corner with my headphones on, this song on repeat, and watch people moving like ants here and there. “What’s their story? What have they learned?” I refuse to believe there’s anyone who hasn’t learned something from a similar situation; I just refuse, and I stand by that. I watch people moving, settling in front of the stage, getting drinks from the bar, adjusting a cable, setting up a microphone, and I have the same song in my ears, asking myself the same questions. Questions I just like to ask myself. I don’t answer them, it’s not my responsibility, but somehow I enjoy asking them when all I’m doing is sitting still and observing, looking at people.
Did I share too much or say too little? Who knows, maybe I’ll figure it out in 2025 when I read over and over again what I wrote, thinking, “Look, maybe this no longer applies.” The thing is, I felt everything I said here. Whether it was good or bad. Whether it involved tears, dancing, or smiles. I’m really grateful for the people who sing these songs. For the fact that they sing them and for having had the guts to write them. It probably means something totally different to them with each verse, but isn’t that the beauty of music? Everyone interprets it their own way, and it’s perfectly fine for that to happen.
If you want to see what songs I had in my 2024 playlist, there’s a link below. Who knows, you might discover something interesting in the mix of everything in my playlist.
Rock Monsters Romania 
Leave a comment